


Ramin

by BakerTumblings



Series: Instead of Ruins, Beauty from Ashes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cultural References, M/M, Sentimental, Sherlock finds peace with his past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: In Beauty from Ashes, John met and cared for a boy named Ramin whose life was forever changed by the encounter. John's was changed as a result, too. Ramin is now in university, and John is still an influential presence on him. This story is a shorter, follow-up to the original.++This would be best understood if you have read Beauty from Ashes first, but the short backstory is that Ramin was assaulted in Afghanistan and John performed life-saving surgery on him. John lost track of him after that, having been wounded and sent home. Ramin's mother had relocated when John had tried to find her. But John never forgot. Mycroft tracked down Ramin, orchestrated a video interview, and after that John and Ramin kept in touch, meeting once on a visit to Afghanistan with Sherlock. At that time, Ramin wanted to be either a policeman or a doctor when he grew up.  Hmm, wonder which he chose?





	Ramin

John was still shaking his head a bit as he climbed the steps, the flat on Baker Street a continual respite for him, for both he and Sherlock, from the stresses of life and the occasional chaos of the city. The fact that it was ~~always, nearly, almost, generally~~ usually great to come home at the end of the day - save for those moments where the flat had exploded, something toxic had happened, or the rarities when Sherlock was in a terrible or aggressive mood - was a gift, and he did not take it lightly.

Today was a typical scene as he came in the door, Sherlock upside down on the couch, holding both a stopwatch and his breath apparently (judging by the colour of his face).

There was a huge gulp, a gasp, and Sherlock twitched as he clicked the stopwatch and began to breathe again. "Seventy-six seconds."

John chuckled, set down his gear, and Sherlock sat up, breathing deeply a few more times and his skin tone returned to normal. "Congratulations."

"The delivery boy couldn't possibly have held his breath long enough to access and undo the underwater lock box unless he'd been practicing. Motive, intent, pre-determined, therefore premeditated!" Sherlock strode to the computer, began typing furiously, long fingers flying. John could almost imagine the typos, having seen some of his rushed responses and those times when he simply didn't care to invest the time in proofreading. Sherlock had said that a reader with even mild intelligence could figure out what he was saying and that fifty-seven percent of the time that statistic applied to DI Lestrade. With a flair after a few moments, there was a deliberate press of the enter button, and Sherlock closed the lid of the laptop. John's laptop, of course.

"So, you have news."

John grinned a bit, knowing that even though Sherlock had been focused on something else that he had of course noticed. "I do."

"Tea." Sherlock's statement was a simple delivery.

"It's your turn." John chuckled, knowing that even though they'd settled on a clear, concise division of labour that Sherlock still tried regularly to get out of it. "Make it yourself." They alternated days on tea, turns on the laundry, and weeks on the sheets. Sherlock had tried once to add the smoking of a cigarette into the rotation until John had glared, not-at-all amused, until he'd moved on to something else.

He scooted down on the couch, clearly displeased and reluctant to get up.

"Suit yourself," John said quietly and opting not to point out the obvious risk of sustained poor posture. "I got a letter yesterday from the exchange med student programme, a collaborative connection through a local university and some foreign co-operative endeavour. A request for a student to shadow us at the surgery, the clinic, learn the routine. Six weeks exposure to community health in an urban setting. Proper local mentoring and supervision alongside their native med school." John had been working there so many years that he was almost the senior partner on staff, handled some of the administrative duties and flexed his schedule when needed to cover shifts. He was respected, well-treated, and settled into the role after all this time. "I set up a skype with the practicum coordinator, had that this afternoon."

"This story would be better and probably more exciting over a cup of tea." The grousing was mostly in character and followed by a sigh. "By the way, yes, I suppose we can make room."

"Room. I hadn't even... How do you...?"

Another huff, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Impatiently, he explained. "For Ramin. Obviously that is the point of the story. The student, John. From Afghanistan. He's approached you, he's interested, and so are you." Sherlock did in fact look bored. "And because you're the considerate member of this marriage, you wanted to clear the housing with me first." When John could only angle his head, smirking, as he looked pointedly at Sherlock, Sherlock added, eyes still closed, "It's fine. Though why you are still surprised that I already knew is almost insulting."

++

The evening panned out in front of them, music playing in the background, remnants of a homemade dinner mostly eaten and dishes stacked out of the way on the kitchen table. Ramin, in his third year of medical training, laughing and sharing stories with John about a variety of adventures - and misadventures - of being a medical student, the trial by fire which John was surprised to find was a universal happening. Ramin had just shared one about some horrifying discoveries under dressings, sheets, clothing, and John had added a few of his own. Ramin hadn't yet done his A&E rotation or his surgical one, but John reminisced about some that involved the crazy things people do to their own bodies and the unusual ailments or behaviours. Sherlock vacillated between disbelieving and repulsed, depending on the situation.

In a med school story lull, John refilled their beverages and Sherlock asked Ramin how he'd mastered the English language so well, with very little accent and excellent syntax as well as grammar.

"My parents thought it necessary, hired a tutor for the entire family, so we would go days without speaking Dari."

"You took to it quite well."

He took the compliment in stride, smiling and nodding. "I did. Languages come easily."

"Latin is quite helpful in medicine," John added, handing Sherlock his tea, their fingers brushing lightly, "at least I found it to be."

"True."

"For a dead language," Sherlock snorted.

Ramin stretched, his arms and back arching, his day of travel long. His shirt had drawn up when he did so, and the strip of skin that showed briefly caught John's eye. "Your scar is barely even visible anymore."

For a moment, the young man seemed as if he were embarrassed and ready to yank the shirt back down, but after a pause, he slid it higher as he looked between John and Sherlock The skin was almost smooth, the difference in the lighter-toned scar and abdominal fold only faintly present. "My family and I researched some ... how do you say, products? ... lotions. Lotions, yes, to help with the scarring. It is a shameful explanation of why it happened, and might have created problems for me in some settings if people were to know. So making the scars less visible was smarter. Just in case."

"I'm sorry for that too. Our cultures are very different." John, intense, shared a long glance with Ramin, who lowered the shirt, smoothing his hand across it again and shrugged. "Different does not mean it's wrong."

Sherlock was studying his tea, thinking, his wedding ring tapping slightly on the mug has he did, a habit when he was thinking. The noise wasn't loud, but he must have realised, stopped, catching John's eye then. They had discussed not drawing attention to the other very big difference in their culture: that they were not only together but married. Not that they were hiding it, not at all. A small amount of research regarding same-sex relationships in Afghanistan made them simply choose to be careful, discreet, and keep their distance for the most part when they were together to prevent Ramin from being uncomfortable.

Seeing their exchange of glances, Ramin smiled and nodded. "You two are fortunate you live here and not in my home country." Neither was certain he would want to extrapolate, so they kept quiet and a breath or two later Ramin continued. "It is frowned upon, as I'm sure you know. Family members are often disinherited. Jobs can be refused. There are stories of stonings or hangings. Most of the time it seems people get together, marry someone based on ..." he word searched a bit, then finally took his smartphone for help. "Expectations. That's it. And perhaps they are very unhappy, but they stay together, raise children." He touched John's ring. "That would never happen in my country. Personally, I think it is a shame, the narrow-minded. Better to be yourself than pretend."

John could only frown then, adding, "Unless it jeopardises your safety. I think you have to be smart about it."

"Maybe things will change someday." He grinned then. "You realise I don't care, of course. If you're sitting apart or whatever on account of my being here please don't feel the need."

++

The weeks passed quickly and were packed with as much as they all could manage. Opportunities, experiences, meetings - all to be taken advantage of, if possible. They were fairly independent, too, each busy. It made evenings scarce as time ran down before Ramin would have to fly home. John enjoyed the time with Ramin but actively found him other docs to get to know. He'd called in a favour with a colleague over at UCL and arranged for Ramin to shadow one of the A&E doctors for a few days. And Ramin spent several evenings a week with the collaborative professor and classmates, having quickly mastered the tube system and discovering that he had an impressive sense of direction even in the complicated city of London.

The final week, Ramin'd arranged an evening out, requesting to take his hosts out for a thank-you dinner. All of them enjoyed a meal, light-hearted conversation, and a healthy evaluation of some of the things they had all learned from each other. After their plates were cleared, a dessert wine was brought and sipped. Ramin nodded to the server, who brought out a medium-sized bag with him to the table and gave it to Ramin.

"What did you do?" John said quietly.

"I didn't want to carry it with me. Dropped it off earlier today." Ramin held it out a moment, nodding for John to take it. "It's for both of you, to say thanks for all of this."

"You realise you didn't have to do this. We wanted to help, and have really enjo--"

"John, just take it, open it, for god's sake," Sherlock groused at John, then to Ramin said, "What he's trying to say is you're welcome. It has been our pleasure to --"

Sherlock stopped speaking at John's quiet inhale, his faintly uttered, somewhat unintelligible words, and he leaned closer to John to see better.

In strong fingers, John was holding a framed gift. There were three photos:  the first was of the three of them that Ramin had asked Mrs. Hudson to snap of all of them. They were simply sitting on the couch, John in the middle, all of them smiling, relaxed, happy; the second was one of John and Sherlock standing at the window, light catching them both from behind. John did not recall that being taken, but it was from a few weeks back. Ramin had taken it without their knowledge and managed to capture them smiling, laugh lines, standing close, John's mouth open slightly, Sherlock's slightly askew, eyes bright; the third was another John didn't recall being taken, one of he and Ramin at the clinic. They were seated at the computer, which was not visible off screen, and showed John speaking, gesturing, pointing while Ramin listened, apparently mid-nod, his eyes shining as if he'd just understood something new and important for the first time, a sense of accomplishment on his face, and sense of pride on John's. It had apparently been a very teachable moment which was clearly conveyed in the image.

"Was this ...?" John asked about the third photo.

"You were explaining pancreatitis to me, reviewing the patient with the amylase and lipase so elevated?" John breathed a quiet, oh, right, and continued to look at the picture, remembering. Laughing a bit, Ramin added, "I asked one of the nurses to take a few of us, if she could do it without you seeing. I didn't remember that being taken either, when she gave back my mobile."

"Riveted to the subject matter, apparently," John stated.

"Oh please, your version of an interesting story usually involves something quite disgusting, so please do not elaborate."

John and Ramin both stopped, raised their heads to look at Sherlock. "This from the man who snuck a random body part from Dr. Hooper's mortuary and placed it in the _freezer_." John sighed. That discovery, and subsequent addition to the flat rules, had been quite thoroughly revealed to Ramin during his stay. He shook his head at Sherlock, pointing toward the photo. "This is what it looks like when a person actually listens, pays attention."

"Oh piss off," Sherlock muttered back and Ramin chuckled. "This is very nice. Well done."

There was more. John brushed his fingers over the edge of the mat inside the frame, where his Military Cross medal had been affixed underneath the glass. It was centered in the corner. "You worked the medal in, I see."

"It really belongs with you, John. It was your injury, your service. Not to mention, your military who awarded it." John and Sherlock shared a loaded glance at that, given the underhandedness of how the medal almost didn't come about, and the commanding officer of John's unit that had facilitated it. Along with Mycroft, who Ramin had met a few times.

"I understand, but well, we both did as a result of the war. I wanted you to have it for a time. But I am thrilled with the way you worked it in."

"Oh my god." Sherlock chuckled then, and both of them looked over at him. He was staring at the frame, still. "That's amazing, Ramin. How on earth did you manage that?"

Puzzled, John paused, looked again. "Manage what?"

To Ramin, Sherlock said, "It's shocking he's such a great physician when he misses things like that, isn't it? Powerful assessment skills, clinical prowess, lightning quick critical thinking. Oblivious now and again." John angled the frame again, and then saw it. Sherlock shook his head a little and snorted again, "Finally. How did you manage that?"

Ramin explained while John chuckled, his fingertips brushing over the wood. "I had help. From your brother. He recommended a specific framer, one who was a ..." he trailed off, reached for his mobile again to find the word, "... a _craftsman_." One morning a few weeks previously there on Baker Street, when Ramin had been in the flat on his own, John and Sherlock both out, apparently Mycroft had stopped in to meet him. John had arrived home, invited Mycroft to stay for supper which was declined, and they'd had a short, harmless visit. Sherlock showed up in time to trade more than a few insults with his brother, which Ramin found extremely funny afterward.

"Oh my," John breathed, as his eyes took in what they'd been referring to. Into the actual wooden frame along the bottom of the piece, the edgework had been customised, modified, to accommodate the addition of another item Ramin had brought with him. It was a pen, the very pen that John had given him those years ago when they'd met, with Ramin's parents and Sherlock in the garden. At the time, it had been bright and new, a simple writing instrument with a world globe at the top. John had told him that he should think big and embrace his opportunities. It had clearly seen good use and blended in to the woodwork and the grain of the trim.

Ramin looked down, then, visibly uncomfortable. "I am not sure what happened, though. Your brother had recommended this man, at the shop, who listened and took my order. I gave him the photos, the medal and pen, and he wrote down everything. The pen long ago ran out of battery; the light hasn't worked for years. I asked about the possibility of getting it changed, replaced, and the price he quoted me was too expensive. So I was really surprised when..." and he reached out to the bottom of the frame, where a small piece of the wood depressed and the pen lit up as it had done when it was new. "He fixed it anyway. And that's not all. Somehow, though, he made a mistake with my bill, too. It was much less than what he'd told me. Much, much less, and I didn't realise it right away. Your money is very different here. I have to go back tomorrow and pay the rest."

"No you don't." John spoke quietly and Sherlock nodded. Ramin looked between them, curious. "Remember when a couple of people came with a videocamera, talked with you and your parents?"

"Of course."

"That was something Sherlock's brother had arranged. He's well-connected --"

"Entitled." Sherlock's statement was a quiet utterance.

"... and generous ..."

"Arrogant."

"... and seems to care about people like Sherlock even when he is a sodding jerk back to him --"

"Deserved." Ramin giggled again at the banter, the fussing.

"... so it seems to me he might have helped a little with this."

"But I can't accept this," Ramin protested. "It's too much."

John patted his arm. "Let him. He - Mycroft, that is - has a hard time finding ways to show he cares about people, especially when it's someone else at this table who isn't terribly nice to him." All of them were beginning to chuckle at that. "Let him. He wanted to help, again."

Sherlock snorted then, his mind on something else, a sudden epiphany. "Oh, right. This explains it." He pulled out his mobile, scrolling, stopping then and showing the screen to John and Ramin. "He sent me this text, I just ignored it because it made no sense, and that's what I usually do. He thinks himself quite clever --"

"Good thing that doesn't run in your family, yeah?" John interjected, giving Ramin a faint elbow, who elbowed him right back.

"Shut it, Watson, before I ..." John cleared his throat rapidly, cutting off whatever insult he was ready to lob at him. 

The text was simply worded, **A debt paid in full is a gift. A sense of obligation, if it exists, can be paid forward.**

It took a few sentences to explain that fully to Ramin, but then he smiled, shrugged, and accepted what they were saying. 

"This is wonderful, Ramin." 

"I'm glad you both like it." He reached out, pressed the button again, the world lighting up in the frame. _Flash, flash, flash._  "I was going to leave it behind, for you to find after I'd left, but I wanted to see your reactions. And I don't know when our paths will cross again."

"They will, though, I'm sure of it." Sherlock was quick to assure him.

"And if you find yourself after graduation, after your exams, in need of a job, look me up." John had said as much to Sherlock, that it would be an interesting turn of events if Ramin ended up working in London.

"There is much need in my own country, and I would very much like to stay there. But thank you." He glanced down at his mobile for the time. "If it is all right with you, I invited a friend here, to say hello to you and then I think she and I were going to go for a walk, maybe see a picture or get drinks later."

"A friend," John said, emphasising the word, teasing slightly.

"Oh god, you need to stop, John. It's not like we're the parents and have to screen his dates or give our approval?" Sherlock had touched John's shoulder. "You do realise --"

Ramin was shaking his head. "No, he's fine. Her name is Celeste, and she's nearly done med school, too. Her last year is coming up. Considering Doctors Without Borders, or the Peace Corps."

"Oh?"

"It's nothing like that." But the blush on Ramin's face said the opposite, that it was exactly like that.

A few texts later, a couple of minutes, and Celeste joined them at the table. She was small and blonde and vibrating energy, chatting about their experiences at med school, some of the people they'd met, talking rapid-fire about what she knew and people she had met who already knew Dr. Watson.

"Good lord, she's going to hurt herself talking that fast," Sherlock said quietly.

"Stop it," John tried to hush him.

"Oh no, I'm not. I'm just getting started," she teased back, flipping her hair and almost daring him to comment. "Think you can keep up?"

John felt a growing concern. "I don't think you want to do that. Don't issue him a challenge," he warned. Under the table, he tapped his foot over Sherlock's shoe, a cautionary hint, a request, a warning. He wanted to spare Ramin the discomfort of having his new friend under Sherlock's figurative microscope. "We could visit here for a little bit together, unless you want to take off, just the two of you."

Ramin and Celeste shared a quick glance, communicating silently. "Here would be fine," he said, "Thank you."

Conversation was light and casual for a few minutes, and Celeste had of course heard about Ramin's history. She had some insightful observations, a few questions as to Ramin's surgery and dilemma surrounding their first meeting so long ago. Grinning, she shook her head. "Such an interesting meeting, I mean difficult, obviously," she said sort of apologetically for her excitement over it, "and then to stay in touch. Amazing really." She had a sip of water, leaned back a little. "I asked Ramin another question earlier, about you two, and he didn't know. How did you meet?"

Over the years, John had stuck with one fairly benign answer to that question, which had come up from time to time. "Introduced through a mutual acquaintance."

Celeste was nodding, accepting the answer as the end of the story, but Sherlock cleared his throat. "My brother hired John to help me through acute detoxification from a serious drug addiction." All sets of eyes turned to look at him. "Both versions are quite true."

The story was not drawn out, and of course many of the details were glossed over or omitted, but both Celeste and Ramin listened quietly, from time to time asked a few questions of their own. John sat back to mostly let Sherlock do the telling. It was mostly his story, and John did clarify or redirect only a few times when it was necessary.

"So you don't even really remember the first time you met, the first few days even?" Celeste asked Sherlock.

"Not really, no."

They both seemed skeptical about that, so John elaborated. "He was barely responsive when I first met him in the back of his brother's car."

Ramin was curious, too. "So what is the first thing you remember? The first memory of the two of you together."

Even in the dim light of the restaurant, it was obvious that Sherlock's cheeks coloured. "Shaving."

"Shaving," Ramin repeated. His tone was a bit perplexed as he looked at John for assurance. John patted the side of his face, made a gesture, and Ramin nodded but didn't seem to quite grasp the implication.

John tried to spare Sherlock the telling of that again. "Imagine that you feel awful, you've been sweating, and tired, no appetite. Exhausted. Your tank is empty, no energy. Too tired to talk much, or chew, or drink anything. Even standing up makes you tired, walking makes it worse." He paused. "You with me?" At their nod, he continued. "Add to that, intense withdrawal symptoms - craving, shaking, an intrinsic burning need for something to take the edge off, give you relief. Your mind isn't clear, and everything hurts."

" _Everything_ ," Sherlock agreed. "I definitely remember that."

"Someone helps you to the loo, gets you washed, scrubs your hair, rinses, finds clean pyjamas, a soft towel, and you still don't feel yourself, everything is just ... gray. And shaky." Celeste and Ramin nodded, while under the table, John reached for and found Sherlock's hand. "I'm not sure how else to explain it, but hear me out. We got a tall stool, sitting in front of the mirror. Shaving cream, a real razor, hot water. Thick towel, and someone is right in your face," he paused to gesture and his hands and his eyes touch Sherlock as he re-enacts the proximity of two people, standing close. "The blade, clean, fresh, stubble gone. Hot water, a rinse, smooth skin again. All that to say, you're still beyond exhausted. But you feel more like yourself."

"So that was the turning point," Celeste asked. "It all got better from there?"

"No, not really. The sweats were still terrible. Addiction is a demon."

"Relapsed a few times." Sherlock spoke again, offering no additional details. "A rough ride for both of us, actually."

With a kind voice, Celeste said, "That's an amazing story. Brilliant." There was compassion and kindness on her features, her body language, all of it sympathetic and engaged. She had been seated next to Sherlock, touched him on the arm and opened her hand toward John. "After hearing all of that - and knowing that was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak," and she turned to Ramin in case he needed the figure of speech translated, but he was nodding in agreement, "It had to be awful, and there was much more to the story. But the really amazing part, is that it can end up working out so well. That something intended for harm," and she paused long enough to glance at Ramin's stomach, "and a struggle with ... substances," she tried to soften the word, but John and Sherlock both nodded, agreeing, "can be ultimately something extremely good. Something bad into something beautiful." Her words lingered and hovered over the table, the sharing of even the abridged version of their early days a sobering, introspective experience. The silence was not uncomfortable.

Tucking his head close to Celeste, Ramin murmured something to her, and she answered, also quietly, discussing something between them for a moment.

John still had a grip on Sherlock's hand, squeezed it lightly. "Out of the ashes," he whispered, still awed at the rough beginning and grateful for where they had landed. His head angled toward Sherlock's, his leg finding and pressing against Sherlock's knee, their heads actually touching.

Celeste's eyes were bright and clear as she looked at them, then, having heard John's words, and she breathed her own response. "Exactly." 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently Ramin was not ready to leave this story without first visiting John and Sherlock again. The details about the fictitious medical programme are left intentionally vague.
> 
> ++  
> Any other unfinished business, anyone? Buehler? Buehler?  
> ++
> 
> There is some conflicting media about the acceptance of homosexuality in Afghanistan. In all likelihood, it is still a dangerous lifestyle if lived out in the open. For more information from various sources, check these out:
> 
> The BBC: [Click here.](https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-36884732)
> 
> Wikipedia: [Click here.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT_rights_in_Afghanistan)


End file.
